


the day the falcon dies;

by amatchforyourmadness



Series: always together (eternally apart) [1]
Category: Ladyhawke (1985), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ladyhawke Fusion, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, F/F, Inspired by Ladyhawke (1985), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amatchforyourmadness/pseuds/amatchforyourmadness
Summary: She thinks she knows everything there's to know in the public knowledge about the Witcher to whom her Destiny is bound to; Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, of ashen hair and golden eyes and taciturn expression, with two swords strapped to his back. She had even known about the brown mare that hated any living being that was not Geralt (or his bard).But the kestrel perched on his shoulder is not something she had heard of before.━━━━━━━━━━━or the Ladyhawke! Geraskier AU
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: always together (eternally apart) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653490
Comments: 51
Kudos: 263





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for an explanation of what the hell this au is all about, please check my reply on Tumblr to an ask of the same doubt!  
> https://amatchforyourmadness.tumblr.com/post/611606785537835008/sorry-if-this-has-been-done-before-but-could-you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She would most like to not to be a part of yet another troubled story, but her fate was tied to Geralt's, and Geralt's to the magical unexplainable matter, so if she were to guess, that was as good as saying she was part of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I was doing this and here I am

The setting sun balances itself on the horizon, and a fire has been built near the barn, burning in idly as the carcasses of two rabbits crackle over the flames on makeshift spits, with Geralt and herself say at opposite ends of it. Geralt's kestrel is perched on the loft of the barn, looking down on them with a cautious watch.

Geralt has a falcon. She didn't knew he had one. No one had ever told her, it wasn't mentioned in songs, or in takes or in rumours. Everyone speaks about his mare and about him and about his occasional tag along bard Jaskier but no one told her about the falcon. Yet, sure enough it had been there earlier, flying over her head as she ran from the woman who had taken her in and her arriving husband, singing it's call and when she had thought it had been gone, she found Geralt and the falcon was perched on his shoulder.

She's not sure when the bird did leave Geralt and went to the top of the barn, really, because it had been in his shoulder as she hugged him and flapped his wings and ruffled his feathers when she asked him who was Yennefer, had been on his arm as they discussed either they should stay or move now they had found each other. Nilfgaard was tracking her, and thanks to the Law of Surprise, they were also following Geralt. The kestrel and it's bright plumage had flapped his wings and pulled at the armoured sleeve to call his attention, before picking at the witcher's ear, and caught his attention to the late afternoon, the sun well on the route to the final bow of the day.

_"We can't travel today. We'll stay with them."_

_"What? Why?"_

_"Night's falling"_

She didn't knew Witchers were scared of the dark, but she lets it be. He's also wounded, and must be more willing to bet his chances of protecting her in a farmer's barn in the middle of a quiet nowhere than the dark woods.

Right now, the falcon glances off at the setting sun, and beats his wings twice, blowing some dirt and small twigs fall over Geralt's hair, that glares at him unamused before staring off at the horizon as well. He hums, and she thinks for a moment that he sounds tired and bitter, before he tosses a rabbit bone into the fire, making it cackle and small sparks of fire rise to the sky like fireflies before he stands up himself.

She watches him, because there's so much she does not yet know, cannot understand, so much she yearns to know about this man.

Geralt's pale face is cast in iron and the usual deep sadness wells behind the eyes. He walks off slowly, his tall, dark figure silhouetted against the bloody rays of the sunset, crossing silently to the mare who bumps her head against his chest in recognition, earning a smile from the Witcher, who moves to caress the side of her brown coated neck.

He moves then, past the lute strapped to the mare's side and reaches into the bag that's best tied to the beaten saddle and that seems to be made of the most resistant material.

Geralt's hands rummage through it with unparalleled care through it, and over the fire, Ciri catches a glimpse of the contents of it: doublets and clothes of flashy silk and cotton in luxurious patterns that she can't imagine the Witcher caught dead wearing, all neatly packed; he reaches deeper down still, past the clothes of a nobleman, pulling out a well-worn leather bound notebook, opening it to skim through the yellowed pages. He looks down at some faded writing on the pages, turning and turning the pages through what she can almost make out as lyrics to songs to short messages and notes until he's at the place where the pages look newer and there's no writing marinh the. Golden eyes glass over, and he takes in a breath before reaching into another saddlebag, and taking yet more pages of clean, new paper and a pencil, and binding them all carefully in the leather, the sunflower he had picked in the fields hanging to the straps of leather and places it atop the saddlebag once more.

“Sir Geralt?” She calls shyly, after he doesn't move away from his horse. Geralt's face snaps around, suddenly blank, cat-likes eyes burn furiously, and she steps back instantly. In a blink, the blankness takes over his eyes too. “If there's nothing else I can do, I think I'll turn in.”

“It would be for the best." He nods, nervous fingers flicking the buckle of the saddlebag a couple of times before making a conscious effort to step away from it. “We have a long walk tomorrow and I don't trust this woods."

“Where will you take me?" She asks, apprehension and curiosity mixed at same amounts on her chest.

“To someone that can teach you about the magic in you and help me.”

“Is that Yennefer?” He turns to her, eyes slightly widened before the memory of her saying the name as soon as they hugged comes to his mind.

“Yes.” Is all he offers, turning his attention back to the mare.

Ciri might have come to the limit of time he's willing to talk. He's known to be quiet and reserved, which was often strange to people given he had a talkative and oversharing bard following him around wherever he went. But then again, he doesn't have the bard now. She wants to ask Geralt about him, but after pushing for answers about Yennefer she's not sure if would be wise. So Ciri goes with the easy target: his horse.

“What's her name?” That's a safe enough question, right? It must be, because his face soften as he says:

“Her name is Roach.”

And so, Ciri nods, and extends her hand to caress the Mare's head, only to pull her hand as close to her chest as she can as Roach tries to bite a few of her fingers off.

“Pretty name.” She mumbles, still staring distrustingly at the chestnut mare. To her surprise, Geralt's scoffs a sound that is almost a laugh.

“She'll warm up to you.” He reassures her patting Roach's neck as he smiles down at her, like she reminds him of someone. “Hopefully."

She smiles back. Because he laughed and smiled and she thinks that was a joke, so the last few minutes have been more progress than the last three hours, so she feels happy enough with her efforts and her results to call it a day. They're both exhausted either way.

“Goodnight, sir Geralt.”

“There's no sir. It's just Geralt."

"Goodnight then, Geralt."

"Goodnight, Princess."

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

She wakes up just after sunset, and her eyes are damp with tears and nightmares fresh on her mind. She stands, hugging herself and makes to walk around, warming herself against the cold with the thin blanket that Geralt had given her, the fire in which they had cooked the rabbits of before had long gone out.

Cirilla tries to shake herself out of it, this mindset of war and loss and blood, but there's not much to cling onto. She turns to look at Geralt— only to find he's not there.

She frowns. She had slept before he had came in. Had he not entered the barn? Had he slept outside? He must be freezing cold, considering she had his only blanket.

Ciri promptly feels guilty and puts on her shoes, making her way down the stair before walking out of the barn with a soft call of:

"Geralt?"

But the yard was also empty, aside for Roach, tied at the very end of the clearing, near the trees. Cirilla walks back into the barn confused, only to find Geralt's armor and weapons on a bundle against the wall. She looks back once more, and walks out. He's wounded and it's cold and he's unarmed and unprotected and most likely in the woods.

She feels like cursing, but with a suspicious glance to the mare as she passes by her, she walks into the woods in search of the Witcher she had walked plenty more woods to find.

She goes deeper and deeper, never stupid enough to call his name out loud, because that's not how she survived this long. Instead she listens, and hopes to be heard walking by his sensitive ears so he can explain what in the almighty hell is happening.

Then a twig snaps in the darkness. Cirilla's breath catches in her throat, as she stops and listens. There's more rustling in the woods, too close to her for comfort. Maybe it's Geralt? He had disappeared into the night, that's the whole point of her coming here, to look for him.

For a moment, there's silence. Then another tiny snap from behind her sends her running back to the farm. Her ears are sharp and she can hear cursing, can hear people running after her and can hear something else too. Something heavier, something faster.

She drops any semblance of self-control, suddenly tears headlong through the trees, branches swatting her in the face as the men and whatever else there is crash through behind her. Cirilla hears a scream and one set of running footsteps cease, and the other man curses louder and runs faster, and, as such, Ciri tries to run faster too.

She reaches the edge of the clearing, stumbles her way out and falls to the ground yelling for Geralt. He looks over her shoulder, struggling to her knees and a scream stuck in her throat as the armoured form of a nilfgaardian soldier looms over her, moonlight gleaming off the the blade of his sword, raised above his head, ready to strike. He starts to swing the blade down and she doesn't even have time to raise her hands in front of her face or close her eyes—

That's when a white wolf explodes out of the woods, snarling terrifyingly, mouth already bloodied as It flies up at the soldier, it's fangs sinking deeply into his neck and knocking the man on his side, away from her. Cirilla finally screams and wheels, watching in horror as the man struggles vainly under the grip of the wolf's jaws. She takes a few raggedly breaths, trying to process what she just saw before taking off for the barn at a dead run. 

“Geralt! Geralt, come quickly, there's a wolf! There's a wolf!” Ciri crashes through the door to the barn, amazed that the couple hasn't woken or came out yet, then again screams and cries of 'wolf' are not the most encouraging invite to walk out and see what's happening. Still she feels despaired. “Geralt?!” She screams at the empty barn. ”Where are you?!!”

But Geralt is nowhere to be seen and she feels herself start to panic, turning to Geralt's scraps of armour and the two swords, hilts glinting in the moonlight. She bolts then, acting faster than she can think and grabs the iron sword, then hurries to a cracked opening in the wooden barn wall, peering through it with sweat forming on her brow, to catch a glimpse of the snarling wolf crouching over the bleeding nilfgaardian soldier in the distance and using it's jaws to finish his grisly job. 

Her stomach twists into a knot and she takes a shuddering breath before she tries to raise the sword she's dragging behind her, but it's too heavy for her. Still, she's Cirilla of Cintra, granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra and if her grandmother could fight with such swords, all be damned she could ride this one! Her muscles 

strain, and she raises the speed, barely to shoulder height. She pants, all hard work and despair before she gives one last effort to draw the sword higher and back so she can walk out and strike the wolf and then there's one hand holding her arm back, and another, covered by Geralt's cape — she can swear she just breathed a little easier — lowering the blade she has fought so hard to raise. Still, she turns in a panic.

“But, Geralt, there's a—!"

She stops mid-sentence when she turns to catch a glimpse at the person behind her, only to find under the black hood of Geralt's cape the face of a beautiful man, with baby blue eyes that could rival the color of the skies, his dark brown hair framing his face, thin lips pressed together in worry, brows furrowed as his gaze keeps steady onto her face. In the hand that lies over the sword, she sees a sunflower like the one Geralt's had earlier.

“I know.” He assures her in a calming tone, slowly guiding her to lower the sword to the ground. She sees the glimmer of a dagger tied to his waist, and the calming edge to his voice falters for a moment to her ears. “Who are you?” 

The wolf howls outside and the man's eyes flick over in the direction of the sound in response, hands slipping from her arm to her hand, taking the iron sword from her hands before laying it back over the leathers of Geralt's armour and passing Cirilla silently, crossing the barn in the direction of the door.

“Don't go out there! There's a wolf!” Cirilla cries out in panic at the realization of what he is about to do, stepping in front of him, hands outstretched in-between them to stop him in his track. “The biggest one you ever saw! And a dead man!”

The man does stop, but she suspects not because she has made a particularly bright case, but out of compassion for her still ongoing panic.

“Poor thing.” It comes like a croon, and his hand smoothed her brow before cupping her cheek. “It's late and you've just witnessed a terrible scene. You ought to be tired.” He says, voice soothing like a song, warm hand caressing her cheek before tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, smiling at Cirilla with a peaceful serenity. “Go back to sleep.”

With that he turns, Geralt's black cloak fluttering around him, exposing the red and light brown clothes that had been on Roach's saddlebag, and exits silently through the barn door. 

She shuts her eyes and clasps her mouth, waiting for a scream which doesn't come. The seconds pass and still nothing comes. Hesitantly, she opens them again, blinking at the empty doorway. She doesn't dare go to the door, much less go outside to see what has happened, so instead Ciri crosses quickly to the loft ladder, scrambling up and rushing to the opening in the loft.

The man has walked into the yard now, a faint breeze brushing his dark hair and the cape thrice his size. From the opposite end, where the dead body of the nilfgaardian soldier lies at the edge of the clearing, the white wolf approaches. The man dressed in red and light brown glances down at it and furrows his brows, standing motionless as the wolf circles him, wild eyes appraising his figure, drawing closer, edging back.

He smiles with affection then, extending a hand, the one with the sunflower, as he beckons the animal closer.

“Was this you?" The wolf approaches cautiously before nudging his head against his hand, which earns a soft almost laugh-like scoff. “Well, thank you. It's nice to know you're not a complete brute. Oh, dear, you've blood all over you.”

The wolf backs away, golden eyes looking up at the man with the voice of a bird, letting him fuss over him as he tries to get the blood off his pale fur. After a while, two arms dressed in silk gently encircles the animal's neck, and the man is hugging the wolf so tightly his face is buried against his side. A shudder runs through its body before the wolf hangs it's head in docile acceptance of him, white head over the slender man's shoulder as it turn to smell his neck, eyes closed.

“C'mon now, walk with me. Let's let our friend rest.” The wolf promptly stands up, “See you've found yourself a new travel companion, better not be replacing me. I will give you hell if you do you know it.” 

Turning away, beads of nervous sweat on her brow.

She could not have seen what she had seen, could not believe what she believed. Those were magical, unexplainable matters, and she would most like to not to be a part of yet another troubled story, but her fate was tied to Geralt's, and Geralt's to the magical unexplainable matter, so if she were to guess, that was as good as saying she was part of them. 

Cirilla could only sigh tiredly and drop to the pile of hay that was her bed for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you have enjoyed my work and thank you so much for taking the time to read it.
> 
> Feel free to leave kuddos and comment or to pester me about this AU on my Tumblr, OfWrittings, where I'll post small prompts and updates about this story!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the scenery one would imagine would follow the gory bloodshed of a wolf slaying a soldier before walking back into the woods with a man made of moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're baaaaaaaack bitches
> 
> Today's is my father's birthday, but I spent more time on this than I spent in his gift LOL
> 
> for an explanation of what the hell this au is all about, please check my reply on Tumblr to an ask of the same doubt!  
> https://ofwrittings.tumblr.com/post/611606785537835008/sorry-if-this-has-been-done-before-but-could-you
> 
> Now without further ado, welcome to chapter 2!

In the morning when she wakes up, the falcon is perched on her window, looking at her intently. In this brief sleep hazed moment, she can appreciate how beautiful of a creature it is. Certainly smaller than the hawks and falcons of the palace, but still larger than a songbird. Chestnut brown plumage with a few blackish spots on the upper side, buff with narrow blackish streaks on the underside and a blue-grey cap and tail. 

It's eyes are blue, a blue so light she can only think of the skies and the eyes of the man of the night before—

She sits up.

_ The man from the night befo _ re. The  _ whole _ of the night before. Where was the man with the voice of a bird? The body? Where was Geralt?!

The falcon puffs his chest, caws loudly and then flies away. She moves to the window where it had stood before and sees it fly over the dead amber's of the bonfire of the night before, over to the edge of the woods where… Where there is no body, no blood, no wolf. Only Geralt, fully dressed and apparently bathed in the early rays of morning, picking numerous dandelions from Roach's complexly braided mane under the mare's whinnys of protest.

The farmer's wife has a string of rabbits in her hands she is taking to the main house with a happy him to her lips and the farmer or off in the other edge of the farm, picking wheat.

Not the scenery one would imagine would follow the gory bloodshed of a wolf slaying a soldier before walking back into the woods with a man made of moonlight.

Cirilla sits back on the ground of the barn she has slept in, fingers twisting around the straws of hay nervously. Had she been dreaming? It had been too real to chalk it all up to her head.

Still, as she goes down the stairs, she notices that the bundle of armour and swords is no longer there. And as she goes out the barn and greets the farmer's wife with a smile and makes her way to Roach and Geralt, the mare looking particularly cross about her unbraided mane and the lack of dandelions in it, that she reaches down to nudge with her muzzle. Geralt is only picking them up and storing one or another in his pockets, chatting with his horse about how spoilt she has gotten, not at all chastising and all fond.

“Good morning.” She greets, a couple of steps away from him, taking in how he pours the rest of the dandelions into the saddlebag of silks and cottons.

“G'morning.” He returns, nodding at her, and standing up, back to his unfeeling Witcher persona.

“Where were you last night?”

He catches her eyes, and she knows he sees in them that she's seen something into the night she will want explanations for and as such, she turns his back on her and pats the filled waterskins and the large sack of provisions and rations, worthy of three people at least.

“Stocking up for the road.”

“I woke up and you weren't here.” She insists, still genuinely terrified off her skin. Because he was  _ her Destiny _ and she had woken from nightmares of losing people she loved over and over again to be alone, as if she had never found him at all. “I came to try and find you, and there were soldiers in the woods! And a wolf! And a man with your cloak!” His knuckles tighten around the saddle.

She expects an explanation. An apology. Anything.

“It's good we're leaving today then.” is what she gets.

━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

  
  


The falcon flutters quickly through the trees gaining speed, then soaring high up into the air, well ahead of Geralt, walking a few steps in front of herself. Ciri is riding Roach for now —until they buy her a horse of her own he had said, ignoring her protests of having walked plenty to find him — still, she is grateful because she can feel the lack of sleep weight her down, and the paranoia of what she could swear was not a dream stirring her mind into restlessness.

Geralt looks up at it as he reins Roach in, stopping their advance as he takes a look around to where they are for now.

“We'll stop now.” He informs in his rough voice, offering her an awkward hand to help her off the mare's back, that she takes promptly, and doesn't at all feels embarrassed when he takes her off Roach and to the ground as if she hasn't weighted more than a leaf. “I need sleep.”

Her eyes follow the falcon as it rises above them and against the nearly setting sun, and she chews her bottom lip in apprehension.

Geralt moves to the saddlebags once more, and Ciri's attentive gaze catches when his hand hovers over the bag of silk clothes before just pulling the bedroll and blanket and hands her before going to set a bonfire. She spreads the bedrolls on the ground, takes her shoes off and makes herself comfortable, taking the portion of rations he handed her before wrapping herself with the same blanket of yesterday's evening and sulked in her side of the fire.

He goes to pick wood, start the fire, fill the waterskins, a thousand and things that keep him from her as she fills her belly and gets warm and cozy and lazy by the fire. After it's all done, he crosses to a nearby tree, slumps heavily on the ground against its trunk and Cirilla allows the silence to hang over them until it grows uncomfortable (for her, at least, because he looks like silence is his version of paradise) before making her opening for the uncomfortable subject she's about to bring up. 

“I could do with some sleep myself.” She says, reaching for a stick near her bedroll to poke the fire with, much like a bored child. “After last night.” 

Geralt's brow arches, looking unimpressed, his head remains leaned back and he pretends still to be resting. “That wolf could have killed me, but he tore out the soldier's throat and left me alone.”

Geralt hums, closing gold eyes with a scowl taking over his features and Ciri cannot help but to roll her eyes and glare at the darkening woods before taking one last try, poking the fire more intensely both physically and metaphorically.

“And there was the man.” Oh, yes, she can feel the air change at the mention of the man. Still, she suppresses a grin and keeps talking like she's entirely innocent. “I think he was a Lord, he looked like one. And he didn't fit at all the gory scene, like an apparition from some faraway land. And his voice… it sounded like a bird.”

At that, against all her hope, Geralt's golden eyes open with a fervorous fire to them and his hand clenches as if to keep himself to jump up to his feet.

“He spoke?” He asks, and it has the distinctive sound of someone choking on the hot ball of feelings they can't give voice to. Golden eyes flicker from her, to the saddlebag with the clothes and the book with new pages she saw him looking through only to find it blank of writing to the setting sun before resting back at her confused face

“All night.” She replies, and despite all her efforts to get him to open his eyes, she looks down unable to hold his gaze now. “Some with me, some to the wolf. To the wolf specially, he wouldn't stop talking to it.” There's a scoff and Ciri looks up to the Witcher to see that not only are his eyes open and trailed on her with a hopeful sort of curiosity, as his lips are pulled back into a hint of a smile. She can't help but smile in return. “I think I heard him humming too, but I couldn't make out the tune.”

Geralt shuts his eyes again, rolls over to go to sleep and to let the conversation die. Cirilla frowned, determined to not let it end with her talking about a singing man who doesn't exist like a mad woman.

“I'm not insane, you know?"

"Never said you were."

She frowns even more, throwing her stick to the flames.

“You must believe me when I tell you these things! I have no reason to lie!”

“This man of your dreams. He had a name?”

“Not that he mentioned.” She replies, and tries for his straight-answered approach before giving in to her worst instincts. “Why? Can he be a creature? Is it magic? Maybe he was a fae. I hear that faes don't give their names easily and just go out of their rings of mushrooms at night and—”

“Horsecrap.” Geralt cuts her, with an annoyed shake of his head. “Since I'm about to fall asleep myself, I thought I might conjure him up for my dreams too, for a change. I've waited a long time to talk with a man not unlike the one you mention." 

Cirilla frowns at him curiously, ready to argue that he is mocking her and that if he doesn't believe in what she says he should at least say so, before raising her head as the known call cuts through the air. The falcon swoops down over their heads and lands on Roach's saddle, looking over their little camp.

“Now get some sleep.” He commands, pulling his hood over his face once more, yet she can feel his eyes are still open, looking at the chestnut kestrel. “The bird will alert us if someone comes.”

Cirilla lays down and pretends to sleep for the longest time, eyes half open to catch a glimpse that will solve this mystery she's been thrown in. But the falcon begins to sing, the same time the man had sang last night, and she feels herself drift off, eyes closing as Geralt's figure becomes more and more blurry. She drifts off until the kestrel's song become gasps of pain and a wheezed out song through a man's voice she's almost familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know, I know, this chapter was rather Jaskier-less, I know, but fear not! your favourite bard will be plentiful on the next update!
> 
> Also, if you guys are interested, I have another work set to be publishes this next Sunday 8th, part of the series 'always together (eternally apart)' that this fic is part of! The work is a one shot and will focus on Jaskier's first experience with this curse! You can follow the series to be updated when it's out or look out for an update of mine on Tumblr.
> 
> Also, my The Umbrella Academy fic will be getting a chapter 10 until Saturday, so watch out for that as well.
> 
> Hope you have enjoyed it! I'll see you next chapter!
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed my work and thank you so much for taking the time to read it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He frowns, opening his bag to look inside and, at the sight and as understanding dawns on him, there's laughter, so soft and delighted it could be carried in the wind along the dandelions that pour from the purse.
> 
> “You're not a dream.” Comes a tiny, marveled feminine voice from behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your favourite bard is here!
> 
> for an explanation of what the hell this au is all about, please check my reply on Tumblr to an ask of the same doubt!  
> https://ofwrittings.tumblr.com/post/611606785537835008/sorry-if-this-has-been-done-before-but-could-you

He lays on the floor, at the edge of the woods for as long as it takes for the pain to subside, an arm over his eyes, hiding from his sight the starred night sky. It's fold, and he already wrote a hundred and one songs to the moon and he's not in the mood to gaze upon her fair pale majesty again. There are only so many times one can compose ballads to the stars and the moon and only so many words one can rhyme the nightly attributes with before voice and words become bitter about the unfortunate situation they had been shoved in.

He misses the sun. The warmth of it, the roads bathed by sunlight, the trees and their greenish leaves, the way Roach's coat would glisten against the sun. The way golden eyes would look when sun rays would shine upon then, always this pinched enough to be something in-between annoyed and exasperatedly fond.

He shakes himself off his thoughts as he feels the warmth of a furry form planted by his side. He opens his eyes to see the white head and the golden eyes of the wolf he is becoming more and more familiar with as the nights pass.

He never wakes side by side with him. _He_ never wants to see his transformation again, and teh bard can't blame him. It wasn't a particularly good experience, his dazed mind clouded by agony having to listen to the witcher's own and being unable to help.

He lifts his hand, pushes his nuzzle away, and the wolf turns his head around his hand, looking particularly cross.

“I am fine.” He insists, pushing the wolf away once more as playfully as he can. “I am used to it by now. Go prowl and sulk in the woods, I'm going to get dressed.”

He doesn't seem to budge, so he closes his eyes and ignore the presence and it takes all of him to keep his eyes closed when the wolf sits by his side and nuzzles his hand and tries to get him to look at him, to talk to him.

“Not tonight, old friend.” He croaks out. His eyes are burning under his lids, but he forces the waterworks back.

The wolf hesitates for a moment, but leaves after a while. Finally. He draws in a shaky breath and balls his hands on fists, digging the heels of it on his eyes. The truth is, at least for tonight, he can't bare to be close to _him_. The phantom pain under his ribs is there, aching silently with the dark thoughts that he knows a way to end this, even if he doesn't have the courage to, and seeing the wolf, byproduct of his cowardice, won't help 

He stands on unsure feet, naked as the day he had come to the world and curses, — because _of course_ he would have to walk around to find the bloody cloak — tracing back the trails of where the wolf had come from, always circling the clear spot where the fire burned and the girl from yesterday slept a little restlessly on the beaten down bedroll.

Ah, there it is. He picks the cloak, hung in one of the tree's branches in direct opposition to the pieces of his armour dumped on the damp ground.

He sighs. He's always picking up after him nowadays.

Slowly he emerges from the trees, advancing cautiously into the empty clearing, glances towards the girl nervously, expectantly, and when she doesn't make to wake up she crosses to the mare. The animal gives a soft whinny of recognition and bumps her head against his chest — which _ouch,_ he's still very much sore from his transformation, thank you — but he smiles nevertheless, knowing the mare meant it out of a place of care.

“No apples for you today, I'm afraid, love.” He says, caressing the side of her neck and behind her ear. “I see he couldn't bare my fine work on your name for long, huh?” The mare whinnies again, and if horses could hold resentment, Roach seemed to have a great deal against her master for that. She likes spoiling and she liked being spoiled by Jaskier. He could only huff and pity the ride ahead for Geralt as he picks the bags where the cleaning supplies are usually kept. “Left his armour in the mud, can you believe him? Absolute idiot, he's lucky I—”

That's when his eyes catch a detail he hadn't noticed about his armour; tucked in between the straps of leather there's a falcon's feather tied on the underside, no doubt protected under the strap when used and therefore pressed against armour and chest, next to where his medallion would usually hang. He smiles tearfully, carefully plucking it from there and holding it up, slightly mesmerized. It's a part of a living thing with which he shares his lifetime with; the feather has seen all the days he couldn't, has flown through the skies, has shared a time with Geralt that he has been robbed of. His fingers gently caress the wispy extremities of it before tucking it away into his lute out of pettiness; tucking away the part that stole of him onto yet another thing that had been stolen for him.

He hadn't played in many months, he hadn't written a single song in even more months. Still, Geralt added fresh pages into his diary in hopes he would write, still he cared for the lute like he cared for his swords, always polished and we'll cleaned and ready to be used.

He reaches for his clothes, set to at least not to do his work naked, only to pull his hand back in confusion, dandelions hanging to his fingers. He frowns, opening his bag to look inside and, at the sight and as understanding dawns on him, there's laughter, so soft and delighted it could be carried in the wind along the dandelions that pour from the purse.

"He's a bitter one isn't he?" Roach beats her roof against the ground as if in agreement, and he takes the silk pants from the bag.

“You're not a dream.” Comes a tiny, marveled feminine voice from behind him.

If Jaskier could jump out of his skin, he's sure he did, and not with the most dignified of yelps either. He pulls the cape closer to him, making sure he's covered and making an strategic retreat to behind Roach's body before he catches sight of the girl, awake and sat and looking at him.

She's pale, more than him and less than Geralt, but he's not entirely sure if that's just her complexion or if she might be sick. Her hair, likewise, it's of an Ashen blonde that is merely a few shades darker than Geralt's white hair and her blue eyes, impossible blue and light, but not like his. They're so light they seem like they might fade anytime soon and they're trailed on him with an interest that's definitely not fading anytime soon.

“Well, I would say I'm quite dreamy, but given my current circumstances, I am very glad you don't share that opinion.” He says, quick wit and humor always the best of his responses to an occasion such as this. He looks down on himself, and at the plant he's gripping tight in one hand still and the armour he let fall to the ground once again — _honestly_ — before turning his attention back to the girl. “I know it's a bit out of character of me to have pudor, but you're so very young and I am so very baked under this cloak, could you do me the favor of looking the other way for a moment?”

Her eyes finally fall down and realise the state he's in, and what does he mean by her words. She blushes a furious red before turning her back to him in attempts of privacy.

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

“My apologies, your Majesty.”

A few feet from where the Black Knight is kneeled, Emhyr var Emreis sits with Fringilla on a table in the middle of the room, as they had been for a couple of hours now, exchanging silent pleasantries over glasses of wine and plates of dinner. Until they were disturbed. By him.

“Have you found Cirilla, Cahir?” The Emperor asks.

“We have safe information of where she is and through where she is headed.” He answers. “She is not in my custody at this time.”

“And yet you're here, returned, imposing yourself upon this palace, unshaved, unwashed—”

“Geralt of Rivia has been spotted.”

A bolt of electricity flashes through the Emperor's face and features freeze. The mage, nevertheless, merely breaks into a pleased and amused smile like she has long awaited this moment while making her web, and drowns the smile with yet more wine as she does.

“Princess Cirilla now travels with him as we predicted.” The knight goes on, however, giving the information she has to give. “My men and I are combing the woods.”

“And the falcon?” Fringilla asks, burgundy silk rustling as she stands up and moves towards them.

“My Lady?” The Knight asks, looking up at the witch.

“There should be a falcon.”

“There is. Trained to attack. It unhorsed a couple of my man while they chased the Witcher.”

The woman smiles thinly in spite of herself. 

“Yes.” She hums, glancing at the emperor in a conspiratory manner. “This falcon should be a loyal one.”

The emperor nods, his lips twitch into a grin he and turns around, gesturing for his generals to be called, and during his absence the witch's expression suddenly turns to ice, green eyes boring in on Cahir. 

“The falcon is not to be harmed, is that understood?” She says, in a voice of unbending steel and sharp as if she could cut him with the right words. “You see, the day he dies will likely be the day a new knight shall be tasked with the matter of Princess Cirilla.” She smiles thinly then, turning back toward the table where Emhyr sits once more. “I'm sure you'll have the best of luck.” She says over her shoulders, before stops, and emeralds eyes narrow, a flare of annoyance. “Go.”

The Knight rises and exits quickly, with purpose. The sorceress turns to the secretary who has followed a few paces behind her during all the time, like a silent shadow. 

“Get me Aulteff.”

━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

  
  


“Did he even give you anything to eat?” The man asks, sat on Geralt's bedroll, frowning in realisation as she cleans the straps of leather of the Witcher's armour, a variety of oils placed in front of the bedroll as he goes about his work meticulously with skilled fingers.

“He gave me his rations.” Ciri replies, braiding the discarded dandelions into a flower crown as she analyses the likely apparition scoff.

“Stale bread and dried meat? That's no way to live.”

“Some fresh bread, some cheese, some dried rabbit. We have lots of rabbit.”

There was a grimace on the others' face, like he had been reminded of a rotten taste on the back of his tongue and was holding back a gag. He puts down one of the oils down carefully. He flexed his fingers carefully, like Geralt's falcon would do to it's claws and she remembers it sweeping over the woods, diving into hunt. The man picks a new vial and changes pieces of armour and goes back to his work as if nothing has happened.

“Yes, the woods are quite plentiful of them.”

The distant howl of a wolf drives her to looko off into the dark woods in it's direction, tensing. The memories of the night before, of the white wolf's blood dropping jaws pulling back from where they had sunk on the man's jugular all too fresh and vivid in her mind for her to be anything if not fearful.

“Don't mind him, he's just a cranky bastard.” The man says tho, barely looking up as he picks the dandelions on the bottom of the saddlebags with mild irritation. Another howl cuts through the air, as if in response. “Yes, you are. A cranky, smelly bastard.”

“Are you fae?” She keeps on her enquiry, curiosity chewing on her inside out. She must understand what is happening, what she's become a part of and he seems much more open than Geralt. “Or a shapeshifter?”

“None of it, I'm afraid."

“Are you human or are you magic?”

He stops on his track, laying down the cleaning supplies and Cirilla can see in his eyes the sadness that is ever present on Geralt's eyes and her tongue stills in her mouth as she realises the good natured talks and the cheery tone were distractions; the sadness had been there all along. He smiles, a tired small thing.

“I am sorrow.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooo, look at it? The plot is unfolding~~~ and what did I tell you people? here you have little Jaskier! And once more the chapter of the preview from Tumblr is fast approaching and I can't wait!
> 
> Thank you for all the support, guys!  
> 2020 is about to get really rough for me again very soon, but I'm glad for what little I could put out here for you in such short time.
> 
> I'm on my ways of making a Patreon, where I'll have extra content of this fic and all others on AO3 and a few other perks, if anyone is interested! The link is on my Tumblr, but to those who are interested in supporting me with something smaller, my ko-fi is linked in my Tumblr account!
> 
> Thank you so much and I hope to be here with you again soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roach's ears prick forward at the same time Geralt tenses. They've sensed something. She sees Geralt's hand reach for his sword, slowly, his eyes scanning the woods before. The falcon suddenly rises from the left, past the trees until he's against the sun, shrieking in warning. Geralt looks up, curses and shoves Roach to the side, making Ciri have to cling to the mare as she rears on her hind legs and turns to the right of the clearing.
> 
> “Fire!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get ready, shit goes down!
> 
> for an explanation of what the hell this au is all about, please check my reply on Tumblr to an ask of the same doubt!  
> https://ofwrittings.tumblr.com/post/611606785537835008/sorry-if-this-has-been-done-before-but-could-you

She spent ten days like this; by day, riding Roach and talking to Geralt, ears pricked in attention to the words the Witcher would eventually gives her back, holding close to her chest a count of all the times he almost smiled because of her, golden eyes softening. Of course, she wears the cape all times and they avoid cities and busy roads, so there's only still one horse — Roach, that is very close to tolerating her now, which makes Ciri ecstatic — and they still only ever walk by day, dictated by the sun and his falcon's cry.

Cirilla never complains, because as soon as night is falling, and Geralt had hunted a deer or another wooden animal that _wasn't_ a rabbit (four days is enough) and given her food and a bedroll, she would close her eyes, pretend to sleep and wait until Geralt's heavy footsteps left camp and then wait some more until the light steps of the cornflower blue eyed man edged into camp.

“I know you're not really asleep, you little scoundrel” was her cue to open her eyes and sit up, smiling bright like a child as the man would flick her forehead playfully, and talk her ears out, replying secretively or with flourishes of humor to every question she had to him.

He never spends a night wuthout pampering Roach at least with forty compliments and pats. Sometimes he would coax Ciri into feeding pieces of fruit or other such things to the mare to get her to warm up faster to the new stranger, and it mostly worked. Nevertheless, every night if any of Geralt's things needed tending to, the man would go about it.

“Do you know if Geralt plays the lute?” She asks, once, suddenly very conscious of the fact she has never seen him try to reach for the instrument when tidying the Witcher's things, and the scoff that comes from him is all unspeakable amusement.

“Not to save his life.” He retorts, and there's hints of a chuckle to his voice as he combs the mare's coat with careful movements. “His bard used to, that's his. He carries it around to get him to sing again.”

“Jaskier, right?” and if there's a glimmer of pride to his eyes that quickly dies down in a sullen expression, she cannot comprehend it. He lowers his head and doesn't say a word. “I heard all his ballads, I think. My grandmother once called him to play at the palace. He sang a tune about my mother and father's engagement.”

“He was very famous.” He agrees, moving to the other side of Roach, so there's distance in-between them, an obstacle she has to tilt her head to see around.

“Was?” She asks, ashen blonde brows scrunching up together in confusion.

“He hasn't sang in many years.”

“Did he die?”

“Bards don't die as long as their songs get sung. He might take a century or so to die, at the very least.”

It's no real answer, but she finds that even if the man is more talkative than Geralt, he's much more metaphorical than the Witcher could ever hope to be. Still, she can't help but feel that he's told her everything she needs to know, if only she could figure it out.

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

  
  


It's day when it happens. Late afternoon, and the sun's not low enough for them to stop in their tracks just yet, but enough for caution. They won't go much far.

The woods are dense, not too dense to be deemed an unnecessary risk by Geralt, but enough that she knows his senses are only slightly better help than hers when it comes to seeing past the trees. They're on a place that's no better than a dirt road by now, because that's the only way to get to Yennefer's state without being seen.

Geralt's falcon was flying several meters above them, occasionally diving between Geralt and her and let out soft calls that sound like reassurances, before taking to the skies again.

Roach's ears prick forward at the same time Geralt tenses. They've sensed something. She sees Geralt's hand reach for his sword, slowly, his eyes scanning the woods before inspecting the sky for his unusually quiet bird. The falcon suddenly rises from the left, past the trees until he's against the sun, shrieking in warning. Geralt cooks up, curses and shoves Roach to the side, making Ciri have to cling to the mare as she rears on her hind legs and turns to the right of the clearing.

“Fire!” 

A hail of arrows fly, one whistling directly into Geralt's leg and the falcon above them screeches once more, extending it's razor-sharp talons in defiance as nilfgaardian soldiers pour from the woods. Geralt pulls out his steel sword, and Cirilla feels her heart on her throat as the Witcher starts fighting with the men on foot, blade slashing left and right, and the falcon dives and attacks the eyes of those trying to reload their weapons hastily, both their victims screaming from the wounds inflicted.

“Run!” Comes Geralt's scream, and she hesitates, ready to refuse to leave him, not when they've just found each other! Yet, he turns his furious eyes towards her, and he has blood on him that is his and isn't as he slashes another's man chest. “I said go!”

Roach complies to the commands of her owner as Cirilla cries out for Geralt, turned to watch him as her hearts tears in two. The falcon swoops up and down frantically, but when she runs off he flies over Geralt's head, having blinded or wounded most of the soldiers on foot and cries again as soldiers on horseback appear to chase after retreating Cirilla. It awaits permission, that comes in a grunt of 'I'll be fine, watch over the girl' before chestnut-brown wings are cutting through the air towards her.

There are three men riding right behind her and she looks back often enough to see when the falcon closes his wings and dives to sink his claws into one man's throat, taking advantage of the pain the he is struck by to pull him off his horse, advancing on his flight as the unfortunate soldier falls to the ground to fly by her side and Roach's, as if to check if they are okay, before flying over their heads with a spin and drifting back to attack the next.

This times it goes for the head, scratching scalp and pulling hair, and picking on the hands that try to bat him away and in no time that one too is on the ground and the falcon soars again, letting out a joyous call that sounds like a laugh before flying to her eye level on the other side. He calls again, still joyful, still happy and Ciri can't help but smile through the tears pooling in her eyes.

It flies, over her and Roach, against the sun, twirls and when he's about to retreat again he is hit.

An arrow pierces deeply into his breast and the bird lets out a shriek in agonizing pain. Behind her she hears Geralt's voice let out a horrified ‘no!’ before it turns into into a guttural roar of fury, bellowing out from deep inside him.

The last man remaining behind her does not falter however, sending yet another arrow her way, one that finally catches her shoulder, and she screams in pain, glancing behind her to see how close he is from her. Too close is the answer. The soldier lowers his crossbow with a triumphant grin as he rushes his own horse, stretching his hand until he's almost touching her— when the falcon, still with an arrow through it's small body crashes against his face, scratching skin and eyes and nose forcing the Nilfgaardian pull back the reins of his horse and trying to smack the bird away as it beats his wing against him, taking a distance before knocking against his head again and again and again until he falls.

It's Cirilla's time to laugh with joy when the man crashes against the ground and she sees Geralt running to them, slaughtering the fallen soldiers on the ground and as she sees the falcon soar to the skies again. Except her smile dies. It tries to maintain itself in the air, flying so high and so far ahead of her she can barely make out more than his small form and the arrow through him, but it has no such luck and she can't even scream as the falcon flutters towards the ground, a wild flurry of feathers and wings beating helplessly until it crashes against grassed ground.

She looks back, horrified, to catch a glimpse of Geralt killing the last man with the arrow he had pulled from his own leg, sinking it into the bastard's heart.

“Geralt!” She calls, reigning Roach in and being silently marveled that the mare lets her. Golden eyes raise to her with the intensity of thunder; behind him there's only carnage and he's covered in blood and cuts and wounds to prove his struggle but she does not care about any of that because— “Your falcon!”

She has never seen horror so quickly take over someone's face and to such extremes as it does to Geralt's face, contorting into an agony she can't put into words. The time it takes for her to dismount of Roach to look for the bird, Geralt has already ran to her and follows to the exact spot the wounded animal lies with the same speed.

“Jaskier!” He cries, and she feels herself freeze as Geralt kneels near the falcon, hands instinctively reaching to hold it, to take it, to nurse the wounded bird, but being repelled or kept only fingers away every time. “I take it back, I didn't mean it. I take it back, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it _. I didn't mean it, please_!” He roars out in deafening pain, like he's the wounded animal sensing death fast approaching. A small puddle of blood lies under the falcon, and it chirps a couple of times weakly, as Geralt bleeds a considerable larger amount from all the other wounds he sports.

He looks off, breath heavy with despair, the red ball of the sun starts to set on the horizon. Cirilla doesn't know what it means to him, but to her it's just a bad night with bad takes to tell to the man. She's sure he won't like to hear how devastated Geralt is right now.

“On my bag next to the lute, there's a spare shirt of mine.” The Witcher yells, turning to her like a dying man, bloody and desperate, but Cirilla finds herself stricken to her spot. Geralt's eyes are filled with unshed tears. “Take it and bring it to me! Quick!”

The last command shakes her awake and she makes quick work of Roach's saddlebags, having learned so much about them with the night man, and pulls Geralt's cleanest shirt from the bag, kneeling by his side and offering him it, but he only shakes his head.

“No, I can't do it. It has to be you.” He says, and it looks like it kills him to say it, but she has no time to ponder over this because he is guiding her hands towards the wounded falcon. “Take the bird.” He urges, and so she does, and maybe her grip was too tight because it begins to shriek in alarm and pain. “Careful.” Geralt's strained voice cautions her and she loosens the grip on the bird, and she guesses now it seems to be the most comfortable a bird with an arrow to it's chest could really be. “Now, get up.” The Witcher urges yet again and she complies, standing to her feet and being shoved towards Roach once more. “Find help.”

“Wait, what?” She questions, now half in panic herself for the third time this day alone. ”What about you? Why don't you find help?”

“The sun is setting and I am running out of time.” He says, as if that explains fuck all about anything. “I have no one but you.”

“You want me to leave you again?!” No, she's not doing that. Once in a day is enough, she's not walking away from him again. What if more soldiers come? What if he needs one of his potions and she takes it with her on her saddlebags? What about the night man? He's walking on foot, he won't catch up to her if she rides away. Her eyes flicker down to the bleeding bird. “Besides, the poor thing's done for...”

Geralt growls suddenly and turns her towards Roach before guiding her through her shoulders to the mare, not giving Ciri a chance to fight back.

“Follow the trail, until there's a crossroad. Turn left them, towards the hills.” He instructs, lifting her on Roach's saddle much to her protest and confusion. “Yennefer's estate is on top of a mountain in those hills over there. You'll see the castle, hard to miss. Bring her the falcon. She will know what to do.”

“But Geralt, I—” 

“ **Do it now**!”

It's as if the falcon has figured out what's about to happen, starting to call repeatedly, turning his head to try and get a look to his master. Geralt's teeth grit painfully, but his eyes never leave Cirilla. She falters a moment.

“You won't leave me, will you?”

“I'll be with you in the morning.” He promises.

Cirilla nods, taking the word as a reassurance before she starts off and rides away, through the path he had told her to follow, carrying the bird like a fragile piece of china. She looks back over her shoulder one last time; Geralt stands silhouetted by the setting sun, head bowed, a towering black monument suddenly crumbling.

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

Cirilla rides the road near the corner of a hill, the sun falls quickly and there is the start of darkness over the woods, and on her arms the falcon quivers now and then and cries out feebly. She looks down, trying the most calming tone she can when she herself feels too scared to put in words. 

“It's all right... I've got you... ”

She arrives at the bottom of the hill and looks up. ‘Hard to miss' was a hell of an understatement. The imposing castle rise up at the top of a high mountain immediately above her, as if it was rising from the stone itself. An outgrowth of ivy and vines has snaked its way up the right side of the dark stones and framed the windows turned to the lake on the left of the fortress, and the tower it has is a high one, cutting against the sky and overlooking the valley and the town further down below. Cirilla smiles, relieved and impresses, before looking down at the falcon, noting that it's feathers are soaked in blood. The arrow still juts out from behind its wing. 

“There it is... see? We're almost there, little friend, hold on.” She cups his hand tenderly behind the falcon's head to reassure it. The bird snaps at her gently, beak pinching her thumb to urge to go. “Ouch, right! Okay!”

Cirilla rides on and arrives at the castle, looks up and dismounts with great difficulty, making sure not to jostle the falcon. She turns to the mare.

“Wait here.” She urges, but Roach whinnies, instantly galloping off in the direction they came from. Cirilla widens her eyes and yells after her. “Wait! No! Come back!” But it's to no use, and she stands there, dress flying to the rough wind, clinging to the wounded falcon in her arms, looking from the door behind her and the retreating mare. “Tell him we got here! Tell him the falcon is safe!"

Roach kept on running, and Cirilla curses before turning to the door.

“Hello?” She calls, looking around. “Hello in there!” Cirilla passes the falcon to only one of her arms so she can knock on the door, and it takes only five knocks for her to notice her hand is stained scarlet from the bird's blood. Her heart seizes. Geralt would be devastated if the falcon died. She goes and cradles the bird more to her arms, tears burning in the back of her eyes as she starts screaming. “For pity's sake - _hello_!”

“Lower your voice out there, damn you! Do you think I'm deaf?” 

The head of a woman of dark raven hair dressed in black silks, emerging atop a level which is higher than the entrance. Purple eyes narrow at her, as if recognizing something to her, pinpointing the source of the yelling.

“Are you Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is coming? The preview I posted on Tumblr is coming. The bird has been shot down, woo-yeah!  
> (read this to the who's coming song of TGWDLM from Starkid if you will)
> 
> Thank you so much and I hope to be here with you again soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wasn't me who left you.” Yennefer grumbles, but her tone is almost apologetic as she sets the steaming hot poultice down. Hand firm, she reaches for the arrow. “You can blame your Witcher for that.”
> 
> “Oh, don't you know?” He asks, squirming away from her only barely, fingers interwining the fabric of the torn shirt around them in such a way that it starts to seem unlikely that he'll ever let it go. He smiles. “I blame him for everything and nothing at all of what has happened to me.”

“I was told to bring you this bird. He's been wounded.”

“You have come to me… because your bird was wounded?” She asks, looking rather sceptic as she leans against her castle's walls, a disdainful smile to her face as she moves back to the interior of her fortress, disinterested. “ That's a little low on my skill set, I must say, isn't there a— ”

“This is no ordinary bird!” Ciri calls indignant, kicking at the door as she feels blood stain her clothes and the bird in her hands grow limp. She glares up at the witch above them. “This falcon belongs to Geralt of Rivia!”

There's suddenly a bright purple tear to her left as a portal forms and Yennefer walks through it, a flurry of expensive fabric and silky hair and eyes widened in recognition.

“What did you say?” She demands, voice edged with tension.

She glances down to the bird barely breathing in her hands, wondering why it is so special to earn such a reaction from the sorceress before she looks up to meet purple eyes.

“He said you would know what to do.”

Yennefer moves closer, tugging gently at Geralt's bloodstained shirt to reveal more red than brown feathers, the witch's breath hitches and the bird with cornflower blues eyes chirps in recognition.

“Motherfucker...” Is all she says, her hands half taking the wounded falcon, eyes softening in compassionate anguish before she snaps back to Cirilla's face. “Bring him in, quickly.”

Cirilla follows her with merely a beat of hesitation through the portal, eyes closing waiting for a shudder or a cold wind, something magical and eery, but all there is a slight bout of nausea and the warmth provided by a crackling fireplace. She opens her eyes to a big room, richly decorated and with a lavish bed in the center, with a dressing table and a chair to the side. 

“Lay him over there, on the bed... Easy…” Cirilla gently deposits the bird on the bed, just below where the last sun rays of the day rested over the bed's sheets. “Back away now.”

Ciri does so as the other steps forward, and Yennefer opens the bundle of shirt wrapped around the bird's body and inspects the wound. The falcon looks up at her, eyes flickering and she shushes him promptly, finger gently caressing his small head.

“Don't worry.” She reassures him, a small smile to her lips. “That dumb man was right — I do know what to do.”

She looks off, visibly worried. The sun now sinks below the horizon, shooting red streaks upward through the evening sky. The bird's wings break, his frail body bowing forwards and the animal lets out a cry of pain. Somewhere, out in the woods she hears a guttural scream echoes the agony inside the room, and she turns around, to the window, and looks through the darkening world under them as the light of moon and sun shared the sky one last time. She cannot see Geralt, but she shouldn't be able to hear him either. He's far away from here and he doesn't walk by night, the gods only knew why, but her worry is still fresh and palpable. Even if that wasn't Geralt, it might have been the night man who would spawn her tales and entertain her in conversation until the worries and tension of the day, of her whole situation worn off and her fear dwindled gently.

Her hands hold onto the windowsill and she tightens her grip until they cannot shake against her consent. There's just too much of it, the sickening worry that builds up inside her and makes her want to scream; Geralt was out there, the mysterious man was out there, Roach was out there and behind her the falcon who had saved her life was belting out on agony.

She closes her eyes, tightening her hands to fist, as she stands by to listen the cries of pain that the bird lets out, all of them followed by a breaking of bone, a flapping of wings a sharp intake of air and a groan of pain that turns into a human scream—

_— her eyes open and widen immediately._

_A human scream?_

She turns horrified; Yennefer stands over a bony man that twists over the bedsheets, panting and squirming as his body seems to shift and change without consent. Purple magic seeps from her hands into the pale body under her, more specifically onto the wound from which an arrow sticks out of. The man under her is covered on white bloodstained sheets and grips Geralt's shirt on one hand, his back arched up from the bed as feathers sink are pulled to under his skin, the loud cracks of breaking boned dictates the pace in which his body straightens itself in normal shape and he keeps screaming, rhythmic and breathless and there are tears staining his cheeks.

From behind her, a wolf howls into the night when the last of sunlight cowers under the hills, and the man under Yennefer collapses to the bed, exhausted, eyes barely open.

“ _'ralt_ .” He utters in the whisper of a voice he still owns, and she leans forward, to hear what he has to say, to see who he is. The pale hand tightens it's hold on the bloodied shirt and he shifts for the side, groaning out a call again. “ _Geralt_."

“He's not here, he sent you to me.” The witch reassures, kneeling by him as she runs her fingers through his hair, purple remnants of magic still twisting around her fingertips and into his scalp. His expression twisted in pain relaxes immediately and it's Cirilla's turn to take in a sharp breath.

The man on the bed is the man who shared her camp all the nights since she had met Geralt. And, judging by the arrow stuck into his chest, probably barely missing the heart… the man was also the falcon. 

“Yen.” He mutters in recognition, blinking up at her through hazed eyes.

“We meet again, bard.” She replies in what's clearly a tease and the man-falcon smiles, closing his eyes. “Jaskier, you're wounded. I have to get the herbs to heal you and I'll be right back. Can you not move?”

He tries to reply but he has fallen asleep before he can.

Yennefer's fingers go still on his hair, magic dying down and she takes a deep breath as she stands and turns, walking out of the room to gathers the mentioned herbs, moving quickly between the vials and potions on her magic workshop, selecting only certain leaves in specific quantities, placing the herbs in a bowl, mashes them together with a pestle.

“I did not bring his clothes.”

Yennefer's dark browns frown instantly, and she rises her gaze to meet the child of ashen blonde hair and eerily light blue eyes with chaos just beneath her skin standing by her workshop's door, dressed into a gown that had seen better days and less blood and wrapped under Geralt's cape. 

“What?”

“Roach.” She says again, rather shyly, continuing upon Yennefer's sign that she does know who the mare is. “His clothes were on her saddlebags and she rode away with them. I didn't bring his clothes.”

“I'll find him some.” Yennefer reassures her, with a tired and amused smile, picking a vial of oil to mix to the pasture, brows arching at her. “And you too. When was the last time you had a bath?"

Ciri smiles weakly.

“Before Geralt.” 

“Gods be good.” She curses, earning a soft chuckle from the girl, which is the closest to being relaxed she has seen the girl since she walked through that portal. Her head tilts to the side, indicating the vague direction of the stairs. “Pick a room, take a bath. You earned it. I'll see to our friend here and spare you a dress.”

The girl nods, softly and repetitively, fidgeting with the hems of her sleeves and glancing back at the room behind them.

“Will he be okay?” Comes the question in that small voice, too frightened to properly describe.

There's a heavy silence between them. It has been a particular gory manner to first see the curse in it's full effect, and it had been the first time if her horror and the fact she did not know Jaskier by _Jaskier_ was anything to go by. Yennefer cradles the bowl of herbal medicine in her hands, and brings to herself a determined expression as she straightens her back.

“He will be his healthy, annoying self soon.” The sorceress declares. “After all that's happened, Destiny couldn't possibly have brought him to me to die.”

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

When Yennefer returns to the room, she can see through the window Roach by the edge of the woods and a white wolf pacing on the ridge directly opposite to the room they're in. The cold night wind whips through his heavy fur as he emits a howl of terrible anguish; behind her, the sleeping Jaskier stirs, eyes fluttering open as he lets out an anguished moan of his own.

“Great work, you dim-witted son of a harpy.” She mutters, lips twisting downwards as she heats the herb poultice with flames that erupt from her palms. Jaskier moans again and she takes a wet cloth, crosses and places it on his forehead. 

“I see my luck has not improved since the last time I saw you.” He lets out, sending a bitter look to the arrow carved into the left side of his chest. It's too close. Too close for him to be anything but unlucky. It could have stricken his heart. He could have arrived by night at her estate as a dead body on Geralt's arms.

“It wasn't me who left you.” Yennefer grumbles, but her tone is almost apologetic as she sets the steaming hot poultice down. Hand firm, she reaches for the arrow. “You can blame your Witcher for that.”

“Oh, don't you know?” He asks, squirming away from her only barely, fingers interwining the fabric of the torn shirt around them in such a way that it starts to seem unlikely that he'll ever let it go. He smiles. “I blame him for everything and nothing at all of what has happened to me.”

Yennefer hand closes around the arrow. Sat by his side, purple eyes meet blue eyes and she can see past the superficial smile. She can see the sadness and she can see the fear, the pain, the anticipation. Her other hand moves to shield his eyes from the sight but he merely chuckles, free hand guiding it to his right shoulder instead before holding onto hers in return.

He swallows dryly and she waits patiently. Somewhere in the house, the girl is bound to hear this. He takes one more breath and nods.

She yanks out the arrow and Jaskier screams.

_Out in the woods, the white wolf howls again._

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

  
  


Fringilla bolts upright in bed, her eyes popping open as light streams across her room. Her secretary stands in the doorway, with a solemn expression. 

“I'm sorry to disturb, but you insisted on being told when he arrived.”

The sorceress nods, standing up and reaching for her robes as the petite woman under her service scurries off to see to their guest.

Soon filling the doorway, framed in backlight is a huge brutal figure with a swirling black beard and a scar trailing down his neck, wearing a wolfskin cloak and a cap made out of a wolf's head; the grim visage of Aultleff.

“You have come faster than I would have expected.” She offers, nodding her head curtly in a show appreciation. “Have you brought them to me?"

Aultleff grunts and steps away for her to see the huge pile of freshly skinned bloody wolf pelts. Fringilla looks down at them and walks around, inspecting them with a displeased twitch to her lips. She waves her hand sharply, feverishly peeling back one pelt from another, flinging them aside with her magic, spattering the floor with blood.

Aultleff's face betrays fear at the furious intensity 

of the woman's passion, taking a step back when she snaps her gaze back up to him.

“Useless.” She declares hands crossing over her torso. “All of them.”

“My traps are full. I can't kill every wolf in the country.”

The woman's eyes flash angrily, she takes a deep intake of air and let's the buzzing of chaos under her skin escape for only a moment. Then total calm. 

“There is a man."

“Ma'am?”

“A bard. With cornflower blue eyes and·the voice of a lark. He travels by night, only by night. His name is Jaskier.”

Aultleff stares in comprehension, brows furrowing soon after.

“The Witcher's bard."

“Find him and you'll find the wolf I want. A white wolf. The one tied to the Princess of Cintra.The one that loves him."

The sorceress turns to disappear up the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I've told you my name.” Cirilla says, a determined look to her as she moves to say her next words. “Tell me yours.”
> 
> “You already know it." He says, and it sounds as he looks, like a man trying to squirm away from a subject he's been long seeing to let die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fhank you so much to all of those who sent messages on Tumblr comforting me after the announcement I would be halting productivity week. I am better, I still miss my uncle and the productivity week is still halted, but I'm getting better slowly.  
> Don't know how long we can afford my grandpa's medicine and we're only having a meal a day to not burn through the food we have at home.  
> Please be safe. Please stay home if you can, please take care please card for your loved ones and be safe.  
> I hope this chapter gives you a little joy in this moment of social isolation no matter how angsty it's is.

Several weeks on the road with Geralt and his 'low maintenance, walk fast but mind the sunset' routine was more tiring than she had given it credit before. Stumbling upon a lake or a river was rare through the parts they'd often walk through and inns were off question

Yet, Cirilla had been mindful to pick the room directly next to his, and even if the walls were unfortunately too thick to hear what was being discussed through, the comfortable bed and the lavish bathroom with a bathful of hot water and perfumed bath salts that remembered her of home made up for it.

She was undoing the laces of her simple dress and tossing the poor thing to the floor before she could truly register it, and the whole experience of stepping into the bath and being surrounded by perfumed water couldn't be anything if not nostalgic and relaxing. There's a small bowl that she uses to methodically pour water over her head, washing away the grime of her hair until her hair is as impossibly light as it used to be, twisted and turned and braided according to court fashion.

Of course, there had been the _scream_ while she had been half-dozing off on the bath, given that she had realised the water wouldn't cool anytime soon and she felt like indulging, that got her to sit up, but scream and howling aside, the castle fell into a quiet sense of peace she couldn't quite trust.

Not when she had seen a bird turn into a man, a man made of moonlight that appeared on their camp everytime Geralt disappeared mysteriously and was only a room from him and the sorceress who owned this castle. Cirilla knew the water hadn't gotten any colder, but she no longer felt comfortable in it, so she stepped out only to find her clothes gone from the floor and a new gown with her measures set upon the bed.

It wasn't anything extraordinarily fancy like Yennefer was wearing, but it was high quality and it upheld comfort and freedom of movement, and Ciri found she couldn't ask for more. In a dress, at least, because she certainly wanted _more,_ wanted _answers_ that only the man on the room near hers could give her. But he had been shot, and by the sound of it he had just gotten said arrow pulled from his flesh, which couldn't really be pleasant.

She ponders a moment longer, standing in the hallway staring the white door. Finally Cirilla creeps into the room, peeking her head through the opening to shoot a cautious glance around to make sure the sorceress wasn't there and careful to not disturb sleeping Jaskier over the too large bed with the luxurious sheets that don't even look to have been bloodstained merely an hour ago. The blanket over him is pulled to chest-height, covering the bandaging made over the wound he had taken because of Cirilla herself, in a way or another. It's no use, though, because the fine keep Yennefer is letting them crash in has rather noisy doors that no lowly Lord should stand for (but these are war times, and they're so near a war zone she thinks she can understand). At the shrill noise of the door opening, Jaskier's blue eyes pop open in recognition and he draws in a panicked breath, hand shooting to his waist for something that's not there, moving to sit up only to wince in pain.

“Don't.” Ciri cautions, light steps rushing to his side, her hands laid over his shoulders holding him down gently. It's only when she looks at his face, warped in confusion and dazed with dull pain, eyes as blue as the morning sky blinking at her slowly that she figures how close she's to him. It makes her blush furiously, and avert her eyes to the cushion shyly. “You ... could start bleeding again.”

“Geralt?” He asks, as if that's the only thing he can think, as if the only thing he can notice in this room is that there's no hint of his Witcher or his horse anywhere, even if he had woken here before, under Yennefer's hands. Maybe he remembers more than she's giving him credit for, maybe he's just missing the wolf. Maybe he's just wondering. He tries to sit up again, to look around. “Yennefer wouldn't tell me. Is he—?”

“Geralt's alive.” The princess is quick to reassure him, and the tension and fight in Jaskier deflate instantaneously in a relieved sigh. “I didn't explain anything to her, not properly. Please lay down, your wound might bleed again.” He complies, laying down on the soft bed with a grunt, eyes hooded before his focus shifts to her, demanding silently the story she had not told the sorceress. “Geralt's fine. Is the falcon who was hurt. Shot by an arrow. I… I brought it here for Yennefer to save.”

There's a heavy pause, she looks expectantly at him for a story she's not yet been told before the musical voice speaks up again, heavy with sorrow.

“ I know that. ”

“He… He couldn't take it in his hands.” Cirilla says, frowning even more, retreating her hands from his shoulders under his unwaveringly sad gaze. “He couldn't take the falcon in his hands. He tried like a mad man, but he couldn't touch him."

“It was his one wish.” The brunette man says, blinking his teary eyes for a moment, looking around the room in attempts to dry themt. It's a few moments before he can trust himself to say: “Tell me your name.”

“Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. Most people call me… Used to call me Ciri.” Her eyes look down to her feet for a moment, when her sadness grows so great she's sure it could rival his. “I was the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

“His child surprise.” He says, eyes warmed with impossible fondness as he lays a hand over his wound, a frown staining the happy expression that had been drawn in his face before he smoothed it forcibly with attempts of gallantry. “For one with such spirit, you ought to be a lioness of your own right by now. Cirilla, the Golden Lioness.”

Neither of them mention the lack of Cintra on his given title. It's only a bitter aftertaste to the sweet gesture that warms Ciri's heart for the man even more. For a few moments, they live in this moment of comfort lit by the soft glow of a single candle, and she knows that no matter what twisted magic he is involved with, he's still the nightly companions she has had for the last two weeks — the one who would tell her stories, braid her hair, talk to roach, pick her wild berries if he found any, nudge her awake when the nightmares came, the one who never asked who she was as if he was waiting to be alone again himself, the one who would be gone every dawn — _the one who never told her his name._

“I've told you my name.” Cirilla says, a determined look to her as she moves to say her next words. “Tell me yours.”

“You already know it." He says, and it sounds as he looks, like a man trying to squirm away from a subject he's been long seeing to let die.

“Take my doubts away then.”

When he finally says it, he does so as if he's a man condemned to death. It's a tired breath that almost carries the one word away with it, and she can see as it leaves him drained and wholly sad with that melancholy that's usually only reserved to his eyes.

“Jaskier.”

That's when the wolf outside howls, so mournful and lonely it makes Jaskier shiver from the miserableness of the sound, sight glancing to the window to the far left of the room and she can only be reminded of the way he had touched the white wolf's head so gently and hesitantly the first night they met, and of the desperate way Geralt struggled against not being able to take the wounded falcon in his hands.

“You'll be seeing him again tomorrow, come morning, won't you?” The man— _Jaskier_ — asks, thoughtfully and a little afraid if she says so himself.

“If Destiny wishes it.”

Jaskier scoffs softly, only to wince of pain at that effort, hand clutching the wound on his flesh.

“I want you to pass him a message of mine.” He asks, voice small and scared and he reaches for her hand. She's not sure she's ever seen someone look so old and so young at once, so she take his hand and hopes it comforts him like he had comes so many nights for her. “Word for word as I tell it to you.”

“I promise.” She says, nodding her blonde head, her fingers holding his slender ones tightly. “On my grandmother's life.”

“Tell him…” His eyes well turn mistful again, until they're so shiny it's amazing the tears haven't fallen already, but his breathing betrays the crying he holds back. “ That I can't bear it any longer. Tell him the pain is too great and that if he wishes it…” He chokes on his words and looks to the skies, as if asking for strength or merely willing the tears back the way they came from. His voice comes in a broken whisper. “His peace… that a falcon is not a difficult thing to kill.”

He lets out a defeated breath, like the words have been brewing on him for many moons and now be gets to let them out, and she takes a breath so sharp it feels like it has cut her from the inside.

“I can't tell him that.” She says, voice and eyes and being througoutly horrified as she moves to pulls her hands from his as if they burn.

“You must." He insists, tightening his grip, keeping her in place, all the fight he had given up on moments ago building up again as he tries to make her see a reason that does not exist. “If one of us dies, the other will be free of it. There's no great loss in a bard dying a poetic death. He can't hunt monsters _as a wolf_ , he's unprotected by night, there's only so many creatures he can hunt in the daytime, he's running short on coin. And there's Nilfgaard, the soldiers are everywhere, he must look out for you, Princess, please—”

Cirilla yanks her hands from his, shaking her head as she stands from the bed, feet firmly planted by his side but away from his reach. She's every bit her grandmother's cub when she lets the steel to her words and tilts her chin ever so slightly up.

“I will not allow you to use me as an excuse to die!” She exclaims, stomping a foot against the floor that shakes the ground slightly under it, fists tightened by her sides and shaking with the strength not her anger. “I can not and I will not tell him that!'

“You promised on your beloved grandmother's life.” He says, teary eyed and sad and betrayed and like a far cry from the bard of tales and for the man from night camp.

“A dead life!” She cries.

And oh, how it hurts to say it out loud. They are both suitably wounded, she figures, her with the reminder of her grandma's passing hanging heavy over her head for her continuous desolation and him with his last hopes of his message coming across lost as he turns from her on the bed, to cry silently with his face to the wall, his finger balled against the sheets.

Cirilla wonders for a moment if he's still _him_ , truly, when he's the kestrel who saved her life by day. It's smart for a bird, much smarter than usual birds would be, but it's not _him_ as much as the wolf outside giving voice to his feelings can't be _wholly_ Geralt, otherwise there would be no howling at all. Could Jaskier have been Jaskier when he had met the guards time and time again as they chased her, could it have been him that took the arrow and instead of fretting over death had chosen to carry his last act through nonetheless? Maybe, but not fully.

Jaskier's shoulders shake in a silent sob, a voiceless wailing and he makes no sound, like he had years of practice, and it breaks her heart. She thinks of Geralt's armour and clothes, that are only tended by Jaskier and with such care like it's the only way he can touch him, and thinks of Geralt, tending to the unused lute every hour before sunset and checking the fresh pages of the blank diary for words from him.

He might heed them, she realises. After so long waiting for anything, written or passed along, if _that's_ what Jaskier has to give Geralt, the Witcher just might head to, one way or another.

She can't let that happen.

“ _'You have to save this falcon_ ,' he said to me.” Ciri says in the wake of her bubbling despair and utter sadness, because she can not convey in proper words the way Geralt had howled at the sight of the wounded bird falling from the skies. She cannot put in proper words the endless sadness, the impossible guilt, the endless yearning, the rage in him when the falcon had laid in the floor, an arrow on it's tiny chest, his hands unable to touch him. “ _'I owe him a life he's not yet lived. I owe him halls and songs and tales I have never told him, places I have never taken him'_ .” Jaskier's breath hitches at that and it's as good of a sign for her to keep going as any. “ _'One day we will be free of this, and we will know such happiness as two people can dream of'_.”

Jaskier's teary eyes look up to her to stare her with quiet intensity. He doesn't believe her, she can tell, not fully, but he _wants_ to and, maybe, that's just something she can work with. He wants those words to be Geralt's, he wants to see them be more than words.

“Did he say that?” He asks, in that broken quiet nothing of a tone, tears staining his cheeks.

She grits her teeth against her lies and nods her head.

“I heard it with my own two ears. I swear it on my grandmother's life.”

“Swear it on mine.” He demands, chin arched and eyes narrowed in bitter suspicion. “Given you value it so much.”

“It will be a worthless life too, if you'd so willingly throw it away.”

There's nothing else to say, she decides, as he seems to chew on her words like they're the bitterest thing to afflict his tongue. He turns to the wall again, and something of him dismounts even more, until he's just a sad tired pile of flesh and bones against the sheets, face turned from hers.

There will be no nightly company tonight, she figures, and cannot fault him for it.

She turns silently, let's the door groan loudly as she opens it, slides outside and closes it behind her. Her shoulders sag.

“Hungry?" Yennefer's voice asks, and Ciri startles, turning to one side to see the sorceress, gazing knowingly from a spot where she had surely seen it all.

“I could eat.”

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

Yennefer emerges from the corner she assumes is the kitchen with two bowls of stew in hands, looking off through the windows as if searching the woods, lips pressing together as she hands her one of the bowls. Ciri studies her carefully before taking the food she's offered. It’s not rabbit and it smells delicious, and she cannot say she is not hungry after a day of pure stress.

“It's him, isn't it?” She asks quietly, gaining the attention of purple eyes back upon her “The wolf. Somehow… It's Geralt.”

The witch sighed, lips shifting into a thin line before she settled to shake her head and take a seat on the chair opposed to hers.

“Eat, have some sleep. You'll forget.”

“You haven't seen him in years and you remembered.”

Amethyst hues look deeply into Cirilla's unwavering eyes. It's no use, no stern glance or dismissive words can get her to back off. She needs to know, it's been two weeks and she was not given a word about the situation, a hint her destiny was a wolf half the time and that the falcon was the one talking her through restless nights, or even a name until a few minutes ago. For all she knows, Roach could be a princess! The chicken she ate yesterday could be a prince! Resigned, Yennefer crosses the room to pour herself a goblet of wine.

“His name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. He is a Viscount, if you can believe that. _Viscount de Lettenhove._ ” She gives Cirilla a knowing gaze. “But I suppose you know him by another name.”

She nods in return, an extra sureness to her after the earlier conversation.

“Jaskier. He's Geralt's bard.” “How did this happen to him? To either of them?”

“They were cursed years ago, before Sodden Hill, by Fringilla. She studied with me on Aretuza… She serves the Nilfgaardian King.” She speaks the last sentence cautiously, like lowering a child onto cold water slowly, but even that is not enough to keep the child from wailing and Yennefer's efforts are not enough to keep her from drawing in a breath and backing further against the chair. “Jaskier is the falcon you brought to me by day by day, and your destiny - a Wolf by night. Poor, dumb animals with no memory of their half-life of human existence.” Yennefer tilts her head to a side, reciting the next words with the same tone Cirilla remembers using when repeating what her tutors had taught her. She can just picture her having this spell being drilled on her head through days and days of classes. “Always together, eternally apart. For as long as the sun shall rise and set, as long as there is night and day. For as long as both of them live.”

Her hands tighten their grip in apprehension at her words, and she looks from the woman to her stew with a concentration it doesn't really calls for. Her mind immediately pulls back to his _request_ , that those words are passed to Geralt. 

_If one of us dies, the other will be free of it. There's no great loss in a bard dying a poetic death._

Yennefer probably told him as soon as he came to her. He's been talking about himself as if he's not a person, he said he didn't play the lute, she had never saw him sang. When she inquired about Jaskier, he had practically said he was dead.

“He said something… about Geralt not being able to touch him.” Cirilla says, tentatively, tries to reach and grasp onto more slivers of information, anything else she can use to make sense of this. “ Said it was was his wish.”

That seems to finally struck a nerve with Yennefer, and a dark shadow passed over her eyes, making her advert her gaze to the window and seemingly pulls her interest away from the conversation.

“That's something you ought to ask him. In the morning.” She declares, standing up, bowl of stew untouched in her hands as she walks around the room, pulling the curtains of the windows close and halts for barely a moment when she's about to brush past Cirilla and fixes her a sympathetic look. “You have been bound to another tragic story, Princess. Now you are lost in it with the rest of us.”

Yennefer leaves and Ciri can't bring herself to eat.

━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

  
She wakes up in the middle of the night to another scream that is not her own. It comes again, louder and from the room next to hers, and when she thinks she has grasped the situation, a agonized howl is heard from the opposite side, near the entrance of Yennefer state. Cirilla rises to her feet, unsure and dazed by confusion as she stumbles for the robe the sorceress had provided and she glances out of her door.

The _sunrise_.

Cirilla stumbles her way to the hallway, the rising sun, burning bright against the hills, pours from the glass windows of Yennefer's castle over floors and walls and Ciri's skin. As Jaskier's tearful scream becomes the cry of a falcon ahead of her, the castle's doors are locked open behind her and she turns, running to the railing of the second floor to see Geralt of Rivia collapse on his side, wrapped around his beaten cloak, to the main hall's floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By next chapter I should have some more works to post in both plataforms, some of which I'm starting to work on such as:  
> • a bird in a hand (Geralt's discovery of the curse on the second morning of Jaskier's transformation)  
> • haunted by the ghost of you (a four chapter fic exploring the relationship between Geralt and Jaskier before, through and after the curse)
> 
> Please follow me on Tumblr (ofwrittings) for more updates of my works and keep safe, hope it all works out and that I see you again soon!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There's a way? For Jaskier?”
> 
> Cirilla listens from the doorway, rooted to the spot, hope like the flickering fight from the fireplace.
> 
> “He can be a man.” is carried out in a soft, warm tone that gets suspended in the air, is carried by the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here i am, weeks and a bout of way too many merthur works that have yet to stop, back and delivering a new chapter! i'm really sorry for having lost muse here and in my other geraskier work, but i am looking at keep my writting up to date and not allow another hiatus this long again!  
> I hope you enjoy!

“You could've knocked.” A disheveled Yennefer grumbles under her breath, eyes narrowed with annoyance, face reflecting the lack of proper sleep between one bout of screaming to the next. Somehow, Cirilla feels like the accusation to her tone does not truly limit itself to the matter of the door.

The hearth of the guest room is already burning warmly, chasing away the last bites of cold from the night before and aiding the sunlight that glows upon them to dawn the man in the Witcher, sat on a chair and bent over himself, holding a blanket around his shoulders and finally raising his eyes from the spot of floor in-between his feet he had been staring long and hard at until this point, as if not daring to hold Cirilla's gaze even though she sat on the floor by him, trying to keep herself from hovering worriedly.

Surely he must know she had questions, a hell of a lot of them, and he would not be spared from the fair share of accusations she had to throw at his face. Still, a 'thank you for saving my bird-human-friend-bard' would be nice. A 'sorry for keeping this secret from you even though I had plenty of chances to explain this whole curse thing to you time and time again especially given that you had hinted you were interacting with Jaskier' would be a whole lot better, but she wasn't greedy, nor was she prone to asking for much.

It's under her sharp gaze that Yennefer crosses the room towards the both of them, face strained and unhappy in a way that Ciri can neither place not particularly wants to given how long the night had been already, laying a bowl and cloth by him and setting to do what she needed to. She yanks the blanket from him without bothering to ask, baring the Witcher's unclothed and harmed chest to their sight, though Ciri is quick to look away, cheeks burning and brows pulling together in concern.

“I did." Geralt hisses when she presses the cloth, drenched in some salve or potion, to one of the bleeding gashes to his shoulder. "Quite loudly.”

“You could have waited then.” She says, arching her brows in an imperative manner that has Geralt holding onto the cloth just as Yennefer moves to let go of it, turning around in a flourish of skirts for the herbs. “Instead of breaking down my door.”

“You can fix it with your magic.” He says dismissively, and the princess hasn't known the mage for long, but she already know that using such a tone while addressing her is a mistake that he will pay dealt for. Green eyes peek up, to see Yennefer turning to him with narrowed eyes and a set jaw, ready to spill venom, but the Witcher she finds uninterested, looking around, weary and worried. “Where is he?"

The woman snorts and Cirilla herself has to look down at the tone in which the question is made, smiling discretely to herself. He sounds like her grandmother, when she was worried but would go through the most extensive pains to not admit it.

“If you spent your night howling outside my door, only to stumble on broken bones, you know he's alive.” Yennefer retorts, glaring down at him as she snatches the cloth away only to apply the herbs all too roughly onto wounded flesh. It is to Geralt's credit as well as to his training that he only slightly flinches at such a rueful gesture, because Ciri cringed in sympathy to the core. “He’s upstairs, in the room I set for him _resting_ , as he should after an injury like that.”

Now Geralt seems to take offense, straightening up in a manner that should be intimidating to all but to a witch with purple eyes that holds his glare steadily with her own.

“If you are blaming me…” He says, low in warning, but Yennefer cuts him short:

“Who else is there to blame?”

“I looked after him for months, one time should not—”

“Had your child surprise not come on time, the transformation would have shifted the arrow around and he would have bled to death. _Slowly_.” The words are like the crack of a whip, and though Geralt is not visibly shaken at the possibility as Cirilla is, wringing her dress in-between her hands and looking back upstairs, golf eyes do avert to the left of the spot he had been staring down earlier, vastly more sullen. The idea and possibility of Jaskier's death hangs heavy upon the room, weighing down their spirits and making his plea ring around Ciri's head. Had Cirilla not raced Roach towards the mountains, Jaskier would have gotten his wish. He would have died, Geralt would be free from the curse. ”This is his closest call yet, Geralt.” Yennefer speaks again, and her voice softens to give way to fear and apprehension. “So you better explain what happened.”

White brows furrow together for a moment, either from the question of from the situation Ciri can't tell, not even when he turns to her and asks quietly:

“You didn't tell her?”

And to be fair, her version was fairly edited, given that her first hand experience had been fairly chaotic and bloody and stiffened by terror, but easily understandable so instead of looking at Geralt she directs her gaze to Yennefer for any signs of where she had failed in her retelling.

“I don't mean the story, Geralt.” She says, harsh and loud as a threat, taking large steps towards him until she's hovering over him, palms crackling with purple magic. “I mean what happened, back in Novigrad.”

Oh, great, another can of worms that she was not a part of. Great. Exactly what she needed.

Tension charges the air and makes it harder to breathe or to inch away from the silent confrontation she does not really understand. Geralt is so full of secrets and mistakes sometimes she gets overwhelmed by how little she does know. She can understand Jaskier, who had been elusive and unwilling to share from the beginning, and she cannot demand anything from Yennefer, whom she has only known for a day or so, and still provided more answers that this man who was her destiny ever bothered to try.

So she shifts, sitting on her heels and allows herself to see yet one more part of his life he won't tell her about become undone in front of her.

Cirilla expects a fight, a screaming match, something that rivals the fits of passionate anger her grandmother and her grandfather would get on — it's nostalgic to remember how Calanthe would invite him to a sparring session, only to let loose her anger through her sword, and the through knives, maces, breastplates, helmets, the occasional ornamental vase placed too close to the trainings rooms, and her gaze skims worriedly over the very breakable finery laid about the room they stand in with heavy apprehension — the bedrock of her vast knowledge of all sort of unflattering (and even concerning) curse words, but instead all there comes is:

“You left me”, whispered in a low and heartbroken voice, followed by:

“You were putting him in danger” said in the tone that Geralt is being obtuse for the sake of not admitting he's wrong, eyes looking at the mage without seeing, brows furrowed with the effort to keep the conviction strong and true in his mind.

“I was keeping him alive.” She insists, voice raising with an edge of self-righteous certainty that dares him to argue, but Geralt doesn't rise to the challenge, looking instead elsewhere but from her, and Yennefer huffed, throwing her hands in the air as she turns around, her chaos vibrating around the room in the rhythm of her anger. ”I don’t mean to ask you how he got shot, I know how your life is— beasts all around, a lifelong slaying of whatever gets you a coin for it! And that's without adding the martyr-like guilt of yours, but 

that man made it better and we know it! He made it better up until the moment you decided to let loose your anger on me and on him, sent him away and lucked upon a curse! He has triple the scars he had two years ago, I didn’t bat an eye, but Geralt, his eyes don’t glow anymore. He looks halfway dead already. What happened to him?”

It’s a question she itches to have answered, in the hollows there is 

Surprisingly it’s Geralt that speaks, low and calm and surprisingly gentle, the all too familiar words of: “Cirilla, you should go.”

“You are going to send me away again?” She asks, shrill and furious and thinking of the 23 ways her grandmother had taught her how to break a man’s nose and wondering how Witcher 

“You should check on Jaskier.” Yennefer cuts in, and Cirilla gapes at her, shocked and betrayed - _check on the bird trapped inside a closed room upstairs?_ **_That_ **’s the best she can come up with? - , but the witch merely nods encouragingly. “Please.”

Cirilla wouldn't say she pouted, not that she huffed, but she certainly was not pleased when she stood up and she very loudly stepped away to prove her point, making a show of walking up the stairs only to sneak down again, hiding in the shadows and hanging as close to the room as she could, just in time to listen to a quiet:

“Will you ever tell me?”

Yennefer, she guessed. Silence stretches for a few more seconds.

“He burned his journal.” The words are spoken in a haunted tone, the one that sounds like his eyes would look like whenever he glanced at his kestrel field against the setting sun. “All his songs, all the lyrics. He burned everything.” He goes on and she can almost picture him, shaking his head, eyes looking to far away as if he could still picture the fire, the bits of Jaskier turning to ash. “He hasn't touched his lute in months, I don't think he's sang either. I'm not even sure he was talking or if he moved all in the nights until the child spoke of him, I…” Oh, ' _the child_ ’ was it? When this was over, maybe she should let him have a piece of her own mind, but for now Cirilla has the clarity of mind to rule over that bittersweet, angry little thing storming inside her chest and manages to not narrow her eyes at him while he's finally had a talking to so through that they were now getting scraps of information, everyone word sounding like pulling teeth. His throat works painfully, as if working around a rock of something particularly painful, closing his eyes and shifting his face slightly to the left as not to face either of the women in the room only to, under Cirilla's shocked gaze, allow his shoulders to slump in defeat. “I thought I was doing the best for him.”

Her anger subsides gently, thinking mournfully that if the bard crying over the mattress clinging to a worn and bloodied shirt upstairs last night, begging her to ask that the man in front of her kill him is anything to go by, she'd say Geralt's best intentions aside, he did not do anything anywhere near the ‘best’ for him.

“I am not a nice woman. I have not forgiven you, and I cannot forget, but this is not how your story ends.” Yennefer says, soft and sad before drawing in a trembling breath. “I spoke to Tissaia. I had pressed the matter of Jaskier long before, but with fighting the Nilfgaardian army and Soddem, we didn’t have the time to research it properly - but she came to me a month ago, she has found a way.” Cirilla can’t help but notice the way she pressed the matter of Jaskier, how the two of them share the same fervorous need to break the curse in name of the bard. It’s something she must tell him in the evening, maybe some more fuel to keep his soul burning, just a while longer. “We finally got the knowledge to undo what Fringilla did to you. A time for for you to face her and regain what once was yours.”

A ball of apprehensive hopefulness, and Cirilla slowly leans closer to the doorway, watching and listening and going unnoticed by both of them.

“Make yourself clear.” The Witcher grunts. “If you can.”

“For two years I've done all I was able, searched everywhere I could about this curse and it paid off.” She says, and she can picture she is smiling, that they’re holding each other’s hands so she would squeeze his hand. “We have found a way to break the curse.”

“There's a way? For Jaskier?”

Cirilla listens from the doorway, rooted to the spot, hope like the flickering fight from the fireplace.

“He can be a man.” is carried out in a soft, warm tone that gets suspended in the air, is carried by the wind.

Cirilla hears a strangled sounds leave Geralt's lips, and knows that the three of them have drunk from that dangerous cup of hope that makes their hearts of glass and if things are not to follow what they wish it will, they will be shattered. Still, her breath is stuck to her throat and her heart beats faster by the minute as Ciri scurries up the stairs, fighting down the need to laugh, to dance, to sing all the songs she knows were handwritten by the kestrel that can be a man, through the halls and towards the bird of prey she was told to see to minutes ago, smiling like a fool.

 _He can be a man_ , echoes in her mind.

_He can be a man, he can be a man, he can be a man._

When she opens the door, she does so with a cry of his name and way too much excitement, and watches as the bird who had been hanging by the window, staring at the outside longingly flaps his wings,

“You won’t believe this, Jaskier.” She says, giggling and hopping to her steps as if she was 10 again and the world was not slaying people and blood and curses and hopelessness, twirling slightly as she makes her way to him, still in the same place he had perched himself on when she had slammed the door open in a flurry, and the falcon tilts his head curiously, takes to perching himself on her hand when she offers, running her finger down his feathered back and giggling once again, as he picked at her hair. “Yennefer figured out a way to end this curse.” He nips her fingers softly, chastising, but she pays no mind to him, ,merley whispering in wonder. “You can be a man.”

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

During lunch she's allowed back into their midst, and she makes sure to take the kestrel with her, talking idly to Jaskier as he caws once or twice in response until he's in the same room as Geralt and, to no one's surprise, decides to abandon her forearm to fly towards the muscular perch of Geralt's shoulder. He makes a show of it too, and the three of them can't help but smile fondly as he sinks his talons past fabric and and leather to give him a firm squeeze, puffing his chest and batting his wings powerfully, as if to show his strength only to end it all by pecking at his ear and letting out a victorious call.

She knows herself to be smiling amusedly now at his antics, and through the corner of her eyes she sees warm fondness in Yennefer expression as Jaskier chirps softly at her in a croon of greeting, but Geralt looks about ready to cry when the bird puffs his feathers again and settles by his side, his body pressed against his hair and neck, eying the dried meat the witcher had been chewing on and taking pieces when he's offered.

Yennefer does quick work of telling her in a more concise, clear and less emotional manner the discovery she had made, and Cirilla did her best work at pretending to be shocked and ecstatic and happy, which wasn't much difficult, even if Jaskier did let out one or two noises that sounded awfully judgy and got Geralt's brow arching curiously, looking from her to him, until she bribed him with another piece of meat into silence. The witch waltzed around the lavish dinner room, waving her hands and paying near to no mind to the food she had set for herself, while Cirilla and Geralt dig in their plates eagerly with the hunger of people who had been surviving on rabbits for too long. Ciri hears everything with growing eagerness to see it done, but she can see Geralt holding back, hardened by years she has not shared.

“There are celestial objects in the night sky which seem to be prominent. Witches and scholars have studied them for centuries.” Yennefer turns to the table, moving through as she carefully arranged the leftover pieces of fruit on the table to showcase her point. “This star here—” She says, indicating a grape. “— and the moon…” She turns, moving to where moments before there has been a peach, halting with a frown. “Where's the moon?” 

Cirilla looks down to her hands, glancing at the offending bitten fruit she holds under the table.

“I think I ate the moon.”

Yennefer fixes her a look before huffing, turning to take her bowl for a second serving for herself, eyes narrowed in annoyance, as she stands up from the seat by the table as Cirilla calls out an apology as Geralt turns his face towards her so slightly.

“‘I owe you a debt.”

“For making Yennefer leave or for angering her?”

“For Jaskier.”

 _Oh_ , she thinks, softening into a smile, halfway through offering a slice of peach to the feathered bard, mostly curious to see if he would take it or not. He does, graceful and delicate in a way that no bird of prey has any right being, and she trades a smile with him before gracing Geralt with the same gentle curve of her lips.

“I wouldn't want to assume I care for him as much as you do, but he's dear for me too…” Her heart ignited a spark of fire and her mind spun away a quick scheme to get rid of the uncertainty of at least one half of the pair. “He… he wanted me to deliver a message.” The Witcher by her side stares at her expectantly and she can feel when Yennefer’s attention snap back to her, and even Jaskier halts his preening, but none of makes her any less inclined to go through with it. “To say he still has hope, faith... In you.”

Geralt's questioning eyes search Cirilla’s face for the slightest trace of duplicity, and Cirilla tries to bleed some of her own faith in the witcher through her expression and hoped he thought that was Jaskier’s hope he was seeing. It seems to do the trick when he looks at the falcon at his shoulder, as the kestrel cocks it’s head curiously at her, a hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth and turns back to her.

“I hope I live up to his hope with this plan of ours, then.”

She could almost feel bad for lying. Almost. But then Geralt looks down at the bird with a soft, private smile, and she knows he’s the most hopeful now, cradled by her words and yennefer’s promises than he has had reason to be in months. Her eyes snap to the doorway, to where Yennefer stands, staring at her, knowing what she did and giving one, short nod of appreciation of her efforts, and it's one less piece to go.

If they can only convince Jaksier this will work, maybe they won't shatter with hope.

  
  


━ ───── ◉ ───── ━

"Do not feed me scraps or any of this 'there's a chance' talk.” Jaskier replies, dressed in his own clothes, retrieved from Roach’s saddle per his request, resembling more a faded ghost than a person, firmly ignoring the closet full of clothes Yennefer had provided him, as well as turning from the words she tried to offer him. “I've had enough of that these last three years."

Yennefer doesn't look perturbed.

"Would I lie to you, Jask?"

"You would keep concerning information from me.” He corrects, arching his brow pointedly. “I hear all this talk of a way, but not how to go about it.”

“And what is your plan to go around this? Kill him?” She aks, gesturing at the white wolf by his legs before waving her arm at him, a suggestion of a good smack to the face somewhere in the movement, violet eyes burning. “Hell, kill yourself, perhaps?”

Cirilla knows the answer to that beforehand, sat from the edge of the soft mattress, wringing her hands nervously at her lap, thinking of ways she could cut in and . She takes in the way he squares his jaw, pulls back his shoulders defensively before puffing his chest, much like his falcon self had done earlier that day, trying to look bigger and surer of himself if that he is.

“Perhaps.” He answers, grave and with a finality that frightens her.

“That is not how your story ends!” She shouts, taking hard and quick steps towards him, vibrating with anger. “I know, Tissia has told me how the curse may be broken!”

As tension rises, Geralt growls promptly weaving himself through his legs to glare at Yennefer and then look up at the bard, muzzle pulled back showing teeth, the side of his head bumping against his thigh, - and there’s always the confusion of how much of his human self can bleed through the wolf, if he can understand what’s being discussed, if he is not only trying to keep Yennefer to be too angry at him, but also to reprimand Jaskier from implying such a thing against himself - the fur along his back is arched in apprehension up until the moment that, out of she can only assume is the familiarity of having lived this moment a thousand times before, Jaskier’s hand travels through the white fur, taking a fistful of it on his hold to both reassure the wolf as his growls die down and to lend himself some fortitude.

“By torturing me with false hopes?”

“Three weeks from now, Fringilla will go to the fort near coast where Nilfgard is holding war court since Soddem.” She offers, hands outstretched in front of her, palms upward. “You have only to confront her - both of you, as men, in the flesh, and the curse will be confounded, broken, and you will be free.”

Jaskier laughs, something sharp and humourless, shaking his head and Geralt presses more of his body against his, as the man stares at Yennefer, hysterically and unbelieving.

“It's not possible. You know that!” He barks in return, walking past a wolf that, confused as he became at being abandoned, still it holds his ground in between them, head turning to watch as the bard walks to the windowsill. “As men. Together, in the flesh. It's not possible, and you know that!”

“As long as there is night and there is day. But three weeks from now you'll have your chance.”

“What is this nonsense you're spewing?” He asks, holding his head in his hands, face hidden in his hands as he groans miserably. “Melitele, did you feed this to Geralt too? Did he believe you?”

“In three weeks, there will be a day without night, and a night without day—”

“A night without a day and a day without a night? What is that's supposed to mean?”

“Jaskier—” She pleads, taking a step forward.

“No, just, no!” He screams, turning around as if he was the one with magic and not her, and the rawness of his fury and hurt make all three others back a step from him as he sets about waving his arms like storming wind and hands balled in fists. “I’ll be a falcon until the day that I die, I know that! I will never be a man again, I’ll never see the sun, I’ll never sing again! I don’t need you to lie and tell me otherwise!” “Go away, Yennefer! Go back to your potions and your spells and your rectoress. She has not found you any answers, she has simply made you mad.”

They glare at each other, his chest heaving and her jaw set, before she finally mutters a ‘he really fucked you up’ and makes her way out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and Cirilla watches, pressed against the wall as she is, with the lump of her gift to him wrapped in leather and well cared for, watches as he shouts at the door, and turns to hid nightstand, knocks the vase of freshly picked sunflowers Geralt had retrieved him and keeps screaming as more ceramic shatters, water splashes, not even the bedclothes are spared as they are torn from the mattress and thrown to the floor, and only when his scream fades into sobs and she realizes he’s been crying this whole time, the man falls in between the destruction he wrecked around himself to his knees ad weeps like a child, bowing over himself, and she feels like she’s intruding at something she should not. Awkwardly, the white wolf approaches the man, brushing his body against him, and Jaskier wraps his arms around him with no hesitation, his face and hand pressed to the fur as she tries to heave deep breaths to calm himself from his state of desolation. Geralt lies on the floor slowly, and Jaskier follows his lead, and man and wolf lay on the torn mattress on the floor for no more than five minutes before Ciri steps forward silently and takes a pillow from the bed.

“Don't you want to feel the sun again?” She asks, gently, offering the pillow to the laid bard, red eyed and still trembling, wipes his nose and eyes before reaching for it and adjusting it under his head and the wolf’s. “As a man?”

“It does no one good to want things they can’t have.” He murmurs against the side of his wolf’s back. “It only hurts.”

“But everyone wants.” Ciri offers gently, sits by him. “It’s okay to want.”

He draws in a shuddering breath, and holds Geralt closer. She fears he won’t speak when the crying starts again, lower and softer and gentler, but the words leave him amidst the sobs.

“It's been so long... I don't know what a sunrise looks like anymore."

It’s only been two days since she’s known the whole of it, but Cirilla often wonders, if Jaskeier isn’t what it’ll take to finally break her heart.

“Some people think it starts with the sun, but I think they’re wrong.” She says, recalling years ago, when a younger and happier and more naive version of herself spent her night wide awake, looking out through her window. “For me, the sunrise starts at night, when the darkness of the nights breaks into a increasingly lighter fruit, like ripe fruit cracks open when you pull it apart with your hands. It usually fades into purple, like yennefer’s eyes, and then to pink and then to a copper colour that stretches into orange and light blues and plays along the clouds. That’s when the sun rises. Some people say it’s the most beautiful when he rises from the sea, but I like it better when it rises from within hills or mountains, and the sun stretches above the world with his light for their first time, evaporates the dew from leaves and warms the cold stones from buildings. People painted it,and people sang it and people wrote poems about it, but it never does justice.” Silence settles between them,but Geralt eyes are trailed on her, aware and golden and she smiles at him, takes it as a sign to go; It’s her time to draw a breath, steadying and building bravery, as she pulls his lute from it’s case, lays it against his back and sees him stiffen, his eyes widen, his breath halt as he recognises the curve of his instrument for what it was. “I would like to have you see another sunrise. Geralt would too.”

When she leaves, Jaskier is sat on the floor, bedsheets held around his shoulders, geralt sat across of him as he reaches for his lute like it’s a limb he cut off from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my muse, Bella, words: "oh shit, Jaskier is depressed"
> 
> ANyWAYS, i do hope you have enjoyed chapter seven! If you felt curious about all the implied friendship thing between Jaskier and Yennefer, there's another work in this Ladyhawke AU series depicting heir growing friendship , "hope is the thing with feathers" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066349) and you can feel free to check it out!
> 
> See you all either on the Stardust AU update or from two weeks from now in Chapter 8!


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